


who cares about your lonely soul?

by cosmogyral



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-22
Updated: 2011-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-26 10:18:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmogyral/pseuds/cosmogyral
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carver Hawke has a bone to pick. Les Mis AU, oneshot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	who cares about your lonely soul?

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Dragon Age kinkmeme. Prompt: Any Pairing, Les Mis AU. The book or the musical, I would just enjoy some French revolutionaries up in here.

"Ah, verses seventy through eighty-nine of the Book of Napoleonic Liberty," Garrett says, as he closes the door to the flat. "Varric, please promise me that the next time Fenris begins to speak you will render me unconscious. I'll even give you the hammer."

"If you could afford a hammer," Varric says with a snort. "That wasn't so bad, Hawke. It could have been Aveline doing the ranting."

"I prefer Aveline's ranting," Garrett protests. He's losing his hold on his consonants, so deep is he into the bottle of brandy, but Carver already knows that he's nowhere close to losing his hold on his pointless blasphemy. "She puts in all those flourishes about honor and justice. It really makes a man feel loved by the cause."

"To be loved by the cause," Varric says sententiously, "one must first get off his ass--"

"--and sacrifice for it," Carver blurts out.

The room goes awkwardly silent.

Varric coughs. "Wake me for Contracts," he tells Garrett, and vanishes to the bedroom.

Garrett sighs powerfully and stretches out on the divan, his weight causing it to tip dangerously against the three books holding up the fourth leg. Because he is Garrett, the whole thing stabilizes. "Well," he says. "I assume you're waiting to lecture me."

"Our father died for Napoleon," Carver says. He tries to keep his voice level, but he's embarrassingly aware of how ineffectual he has been. "Our father bled to death on that field of war for him. And for liberty."

Garrett rubs a hand across his eyes. "I know. And you're determined to do that if at all possible."

"I'm just _determined_ to find out why if you insist on this disrespect of our leaders and our -- our -- of Fenris you keep coming to our meetings, _brother_ ," Carver growls. "I--"

Garrett waves a hand. "Stop, you're going to choke yourself. Mother Mary, Carver, have you forgotten exactly who took you to 'our' meetings?"

"Then _why?_ " Carver demands. "If you think the revolution is such a waste of breath then why do you keep wasting all of our time with your constant _shit?_ If you don't like Fenris--"

Garrett laughs. It's a raspy sound, and he frowns and lubricates it with more wine. "Oh, Carver," he says. He heads for the bedroom. "The supreme happiness in life is the conviction that we are loved by our little brothers. Good night."

Carver's still stewing in his own rage when Isabela finally comes back home, unwinding the long scarf she's choosing to affect these days. "You asked him about Fenris," she says, without even looking at him. "Then he went off to sleep with Varric and you stayed in to pout. Did I get it right? I love puzzles."

"I don't understand any of you," Carver sighs. He throws a shoe at the opposite wall. "Varric doesn't believe in the cause, Hawke doesn't believe in Fenris, and you don't believe in _anything._ "

"Now, kitten, that's just not true," Isabela says. She kisses him and sits down at the table, drawing out a pack of cards. "I believe in personal liberty. And in the rights of women, and in the rights of the individual, of course. And I just adore getting under our fearless leader's corset."

Carver blanches. "Please tell me you haven't."

"Not yet," Isabela says, pouting, "Be quiet, I'm not listening to you. Spoil-sport. Anyway, you're wrong about Hawke and Fenris."

"How am I wrong about them?" Carver demands. "He's never on time to the meetings, he cat-calls through half of the speeches-- you know Fenris never talks for more than two minutes together and he still manages to make a mockery out of it--"

Isabela rolls her eyes. "I'm bored already. Did no one ever tell you we were fighting for _liberty?_ "

"Yes!" Carver protests. "But we can't fight if we aren't organized!"

"And we can't be free if we're busy hero-worshipping anyone," Isabela says, firmly. "Especially not Fenris. I'd say you should just sleep with him, but you'd have to remove Robespierre first. Have you thought about finding a nice prostitute?"

Carver scowls in response, splaying his feet against the other chair. He is aware, uncomfortably, that it makes him look like a child.

Isabela scrutinizes him. "You're not in love with Fenris," she says. "I know the symptoms. But you _are_ in love."

"Oh, my god," Carver says, before he can think to stop himself, and knocks over the other chair.

"Ha!" Isabella whoops. "I knew it! Who is it? That little urchin girl who's so fond of -- No! I know who it is."

"Please don't tell my brother," Carver says, knowing that he is begging. "Please. For the love of the country."

"Oh, not on your life," Isabela promises. "But how charming! Does she know?"

Carver drops his head between his knees. "She doesn't even know my name."

"That's even better." Isabela grins. "You know, Varric is going to make a _fortune_ with this. Maybe he could set it to song."


End file.
